


Once Upon a Time

by xxsnailxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, It Sounds More Crack-y Than It Actually Is, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Minor Lily Evans Potter/Severus Snape, Non-Graphic Violent Rituals, Very Bad Epithets, What Are Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 22:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16334645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxsnailxx/pseuds/xxsnailxx
Summary: An AU inspired by andlooselybased on Sleeping Beauty, featuring, in order of appearance:Lily as the unfortunate peasant-turned-King’s-consort who gets caught in/ is actually the source of the mess;Severus as collateral damage (as usual);James as thenobleWarrior-King who accidentally sells his firstborn;The Marauders as the (Fairy) Godparents who didn't get to Do Their Thing because they were rudely interrupted;Voldemort as theDrama-QueenWitch-King;Harry as Sleeping Beauty whogets maybe a grand total of two words into the fic, edgewise(edit: doesn't get single word in);Nagini as Voldemort's third (and fourth, and fifth) arm;and Hermione and Ron as guest artists.





	Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> For the Tomarry Discord Fairy Tale Challenge (or not, the inspiration just came at an opportune time).
> 
> Warnings for a mismatch between the tone of the summary and that of the story. And for false starts. And character death. And bad, bad epithets. And the bad summary, and the uncreative title.
> 
> Lots if thanks to RedHorse for beta-ing, and dealing with all my present tense bullshit. And my shitty epithets. Any remaining errors are my own.

_‘Let me tell you a story…’_

Once upon a time, in a region known as Hogwarts, there were four nations.

In Gryffindor, the land of lions, there were no armours, for she spun the strongest threads, and metals were used to craft finest swords, and none lived who were as chivalrous as her Warrior-King; in Hufflepuff, the land of badgers, all were friendly and kind as her Warrior-Queen, and she thrived on trade for she was the kingdom with the most and strongest diplomatic ties; in Ravenclaw, the land of eagles, the Witch-Queen was wise beyond measure, and her warriors wielded staffs in the stead of swords; in Slytherin, the land of snakes, the Witch-King had kin but no family, for he was paranoid of challengers against his throne.

In the land of Slytherin, where the Witch-King ruled all alike with a grip as strong as the king snake's squeeze, there lived the Fair Maiden of Fire, and the Half-Blood Witch-Prince.

The Maiden, born and raised in a fishing village by the very edges of the Witch-Kingdom, had hair as red as the scorching flames of Hell, and eyes as green as the grass on the other side of the Cursed Lake. All knew her to be beautiful, and all the more fearsome for it, for even the fishes she hunted were drawn to her.

The Witch-Prince was born of the Witch-King's half sister and a peasant who hailed from Ravenclaw. He was as pale as the virgin snow, and had hair and eyes as black as the Witch-King's secret chamber deep beneath the castle at its darkest. He was exiled at the age of five, to the furthest reaches of the Witch-Kingdom's land, as the Witch-King feared his prophesied role in the vanquishing of his immortality.

And thus, at the very edge of the Witch-Kingdom of Slytherin, a Witch-Prince met a Fair Maiden. And there, they discovered Magic, and spent many a year frolicking by the Cursed Lake, moving the wind and the currents to their whims.

And thus, by the lake that separated the Witch-Kingdom of Slytherin and the Warrior-Kingdom of Gryffindor, a Prince loved a Maiden.

Of course, such an idyllic childhood could not last.

On a day like any other, the Golden Warrior-Prince of Gryffindor rode on his trusty stag, with his friends the Three Marauders, to the edge of his father's land, and heard a fair voice travel over the calm lake. The voice spoke with wit of the rumours of the many foolish misadventures undertaken by the Warrior-Prince and his Marauders.

And thus, to the sound of rustling leaves and soft splashes of water, a Prince fell in love with a Maiden all knew he could not have. But a Warrior-Prince of Gryffindor does not give up.

 

Nary a week later, the Maiden found herself in the Castle of the Witch-King, and her liege smiled at her suitor with humour that did not speak well for the courtship. The Maiden belonged to Slytherin, the Witch-King said, and could scarcely be allowed to leave without payment.

Anything, declared the Warrior-Prince, would be a price worth the hand of the Flower.

And the smile of the Witch-King became only wider. “I would demand your firstborn.”

* * *

_‘… But this is not the story I wished to tell. Let us begin again…’_

 

Once upon a time, in a region known as Hogwarts, there was Magic, there was a Warrior-King, there was a Warrior-Queen, there was a Witch-Queen, and there was a Witch-King.

The Warrior-King of Gryffindor had married two years before, and was coronated soon after. Since the royal ceremony, the Warrior-Kingdom began to weaken, for the circumstances of the Warrior-King's marriage — the taking of an unwilling Maiden from her homeland at the price of her firstborn — were neither chivalrous nor noble, and the land knew. But the Maiden who was a Maiden no more soon came to love the Warrior-King, for though he was reckless, he was sincere in his love for her, and he made that clear to all.

After two years of trying, the Burning Flower of the Cursed Lake conceived and bore a child, on the day before the Kalends of August.

On the advice of the Warrior-King's best warriors — for they were in their youths apprenticed to the Warlock, Dumbledore the Wise, and could wield Magic half as well as the sword — the Warrior-King and his consort kept word of the birth from reaching the ears of Slytherin.

A celebration was thus planned for the day three months from the Warrior-Prince's birth, and the Warrior-Queen, the Witch-Queen, their kin, and their Council were invited, as was the Council of Sorcerers. Then the Flower recalled the Witch-Prince, and an invitation was sent in utmost secrecy across the Cursed Lake.

But the Witch-Prince was not to be found in the old fishing village, nor in the next. Another messenger would have returned to his liege in failure, but the Marauder who held the scroll was the best at his job, and he heard tell that the Witch-Prince was now serving in the Witch-King's Castle.

And into the Castle he stole.

So it was that the Witch-King found out about the Celebration, though he had known not of the birth.

 

All Hallows’ Eve came. Wormtail did not return, the Witch-Prince came not, and the Witch-King and his familiar materialised, in a swirl of black robes and green flames, just before the Blessings were to be given.

It was a dramatic entrance, fit for the Witch-King, who thought himself above all life, and the guests were stunned, for, save the rulers, their consorts and their heirs, none had before glimpsed the Witch-King, and thus they knew not of beauty they would behold. The Witch-King was tall and fair, with hair as dark as a panther's and features as sharp as the ritual blade held by the Marauder Padfoot. His eyes were redder even than the Flower's mane, and his robes were of an exotic fashion, not oft seen outside his land. In his hand he held a staff of bone white wood, the head of his snake resting upon its knot, her eyes all-seeing and deceptive in their calmness. And yet about his robed arm, she coiled, tense and prepared to lunge.

And his rage, oh, his glorious rage, as magnificent as the green flames that brought him there and made finer still by the barely-visible white flames that coated his skin. All who touched his skin would burn upon it, and even his familiar dared not rest upon his bare arm

He held immediately the focus of all present, but had eyes only for the Warrior-King, who stood upon the dais, by the altar, and his heir, who rested in his sire's arms. “King James,” he greeted with a graceful bow, as though he were merely a visiting diplomat. “When last I saw you, you were but a child; righteous, forthright and wilful. Yet now you seek to deceive me. You have not the skill. So tell me, who planted that seed of scant cunning in that noble heart of yours?”

“The King's decisions are his own,” the Marauder Padfoot declared. “He has not a snake that hisses in his ear like yours.”

The Witch-King's gaze shifted unto the Marauder Padfoot, who stood before the altar, a gleaming ritual blade clutched in his fist — he was the godfather, prepared to sacrifice his blood for the Warrior-Prince’s Blessings ceremony. The Witch-King took a step forward, then two, then another up the dais, and he was towering suddenly over the man, who was not short himself. His staff was raised ever-so-slightly, and he smiled, regal and charming and mysterious. Imposing. “Monsieur Black,” he breathed out, and the Marauder took a frantic step back, but his robe was in an instant caught between the snake’s teeth. “An honour it is not to meet you. You shall learn to speak only when spoken to… Or not at all. _Nagini, away with his voice._ ”

The snake struck, precise as a seamstress and volant as the monsoon winds over the ocean, and Padfoot fell, and spoke not again.

Satisfied, the Witch-King turned around, and his eyes landed yet again on the Warrior-King and his firstborn, and he saw that the younger King was tense and poised to strike, and he knew that he would, were it not for the babe he cradled in his arms. Nevertheless, the Warrior-King raised his chin and stood proud, awaiting the verdict with honour and dignity. In this moment, the guests could see that, his propensity for violence and rashness notwithstanding, the young man was indeed worthy of the Throne of Pride.

For a long moment the Witch-King was as still as the other occupants of the room, crimson eyes watching, calculating. Then the infant let out an abrupt, tickled laugh, and the Witch-King smiled once more.

When he spoke, none dared breathe. “For thy feeble attempt to evade the blood price of the ritual that allowed thy consort to cross the Cursed Lake, hear me now, James Warrior-King of Gryffindor, as I lay upon thy blood and kingdom three curses: First, may the hearts of all save the two before me, who have in their veins even a drop of thy royal blood, perish before the next moon rises. Second, may thy land recognise the immorality of thy thoughts and acts, and hence renounce thee as the worthy King of Gryffindor.” He paused for a breath, and all held their breath and were witness to the gradual wilting of the Warrior-King's crown induced by the curse. “Third, may thou never sire a second son.”

Silence.

The Warrior-Prince made an exclamation, and crimson eyes dropped to him, to find the infant's chubby hand, reaching out towards the powerful Witch-King. The Witch-King stepped towards him, and the Warrior-King retreated; a step for a step till the latter's back was against the wall, and he could withdraw no further. The Witch-King was triumphant as he moved to touch the sacrificial Prince, but was intercepted swiftly by a flurry of flaming red hair and a royal dress— the Warrior-King's consort.

“Stay away from my son,” she warned, her stance fearsome in its fearlessness, poise exuding the importance of her station. She raised her sword to fend off the threat, her posture true as a true-bred Warrior Maiden's. But her hand that held the sword trembled, and Nagini struck.

With the butt of her head, and a sleek and lethal undulation of her hidden muscles, the majestic snake slammed against the grip, knocking the sword cleanly out of the Flower's hand. Just as quickly, the snake was back as though she had never moved, awaiting her next task.

“Move aside,” the Witch-King said, as quiet and deadly as the serpent upon his clothed arm.

“No!” But her voice trembled now, and she knew the end had come.

The Witch-King seemed almost sympathetic when he said again, “Move aside, silly girl.”

“No, please!” she was screaming now, as the last Marauder attempted to pull her out of the Witch-King's path. “Not my Harry, please, I'll do anything—”

“Step aside,” he hissed once more, with a finality that frightened the Warrior-King's consort enough that the Marauder could pull her away, and the duo toppled over, out of harm's way. The infant, Harry the Warrior-Prince, reached out once again with his fat, ugly hand, and the Witch-King caught it, and the Prince did not burn.

“You,” the Witch-King uttered, “child, your life is forfeit; it belongs to me. Never has it been yours. But I shall not have it, not now. For the Warrior-Kingdom would grieve the loss the Prince she never had, but she would move on, and another would be found. Thou shalt be loved, Harry Warrior-Prince of Gryffindor. All shall love thee, and when the sun rises, sixteen years from this day, before the noon, thou wilt on a spinning wheel prick thy finger, and thou shalt fall. And all shall grieve, and none shall heal.” The Warrior-Prince's hand was released, and the Witch-King sealed the curse with a kiss to his forehead. “Ave, Warrior-Prince,” he said, and was gone.

 

The infant cried, and the room was in uproar. A dignified uproar, to be sure, but it was chaos nonetheless. Each of the witnesses seemed to have a different opinion on what the present priority ought to be; a few made for the exit quickly, others went forth to aid the Marauder Padfoot, but most were content to bustle about, whispering in hushed tones.

Of the guests, only the Warrior-Queen of Hufflepuff and Witch-Queen of Ravenclaw dared approach the altar.

The Witch-Queen, ever indubitable in her wisdom, spoke first to the Warrior-King. “There is no hope left for your blood to rule this land. Even as we speak, the crown that sits upon your skull, it rots. You, whose land recognises her ruler by his honour, would be a better King if you would this instant begin the search for your successor. Proud though you may be, the Throne of Pride is no longer your seat.”

“Take not your son with you,” the Warrior-Queen counseled. “Sixteen years is a long time yet, and we know not the plans fate has for your Prince. He may yet guide your Kingdom to prosper in your stead, before Tom Witch-King takes him.”

“Please.” The Queens turned to see the King's consort, her expression not that of a mother who had just heard her son would not live to see the end of his seventeenth year. She was steadfast and sure, and in her eyes there was hope. “Please,” she said again, “Sybill Witch-Queen of the Throne of Unkindness, I would lay down my life to give my son a ray of hope. Please, tell me what I must do.”

For a long time the Witch-Queen said nothing, for the Witch-Queen and the Witch-King were matched in power, and she could not take what was already promised to him. But the Flower of the Cursed Lake held her gaze, and at long last she ceded. “Very well.”

 

Just as three curses were laid upon the Warrior-King's blood and land, three blessings were endowed upon the Warrior-Prince. The first, and most powerful, for it would defy the very principle of blood rituals, was uttered as the Warrior-Prince's mother brought the ritual knife down upon her bosom, her aim true and resolute.

“Harry Warrior-Prince shall not die, but shall instead fall into Eternal Sleep.”

For the second, the Warrior-Prince's godfather sacrificed his voice.

“Harry Warrior-Prince shall, whilst he would sleep, neither die nor be killed.”

For the third, the Warrior-Prince's godfather gave his honour, and drove the knife through his liege's heart.

“Harry Warrior-Prince shall be awoken from Eternal Sleep by a True Love's Kiss.”

And it was done.

* * *

_‘… But of course, a story could not simply end there. As the story of his the parents ended, the story of Harry Warrior-Prince began…’_

 

Once upon a time, in a land known as the Warrior-Kingdom of Gryffindor, there lived a Warrior-Prince who knew not his parents. He knew not what a spinning wheel was, and he knew not the voice of his godfather.

But he knew the man who sat on the Throne of Pride was Moony, and he knew he had a wonderful voice for telling stories. He knew the old man that showed up sometimes was the Chief Warlock, and he knew the taste of the lemon sweets the old man offered.

He knew he had his father's face, his father's hair and his father's pride; he knew he had his mother's wit, his mother's laugh and his mother's eyes. He knew he had his father's cloak, woven of the most finely spun thread ever made in their kingdom, but he knew never to declare his aspirations to make another just like it.

He knew not of the curses, the blessings, nor of his life's forfeit.

And he knew not his beauty.

 

True to the Witch-King's words, the Warrior-Prince grew to be adored by all who knew him. Whether they were a peasant who helped him back after he would fall from an attempt to scale a tree, or the guards who went on regular hunts to find him after a game of Hide-and-Seek too well played, or even the baker he once snuck a piece of bread from to feed a child he passed by, none who spoke once to the Warrior-Prince would forget him, and always they would think of him with reverence.

There was doubt in none, that the little Warrior-Prince would have made a great king.

He was vivacious in his curiosity, and endearing in his apologies. His joy was more contagious than the plague, and even at the height of his tantrums his ire was captivating.

 

The young Warrior-Prince knew they loved him, but he could not understand why all in the palace looked upon him with some measure of melancholy. It did not take many years for him to begin to prefer the company of those who did not reside within the palace.

But as the years passed, the rumours of his fate spread further, and the Warrior-Prince journeyed further still, in search of company that did not treat him like a tragedy about to happen.

 

He found relief in a small town not far from where the land of Gryffindor ended, and where Ravenclaw began, in the form of an exuberant young maiden.

She was, when they first met, overzealous to have made his acquaintance. They were but eleven years of age, and he had not liked her then. But when next he visited the village, she was engrossed in a book, and was unafraid to snap at him when he would distract her. And when she spoke of the books on magic she found in the library, the room seemed to brighten in her passion, and he found it was not difficult to like the Bookworm, after all.

So they began to adventure together — and let it not be said that the Bookworm had not a fiercely audacious side to her as well. Once, when they ventured near the Cursed Lake, she spied the Half-Blood Witch-Prince of Slytherin on the other side, and set him on fire, for she suspected his intent gaze on her friend was an attempt to place upon him a curse. Never again did anyone proclaim her an unsuitable companion for the Warrior-Prince.

 

In a village nary an hour from the Bookworm's town, there lived a family of redheads. There, the Warrior-Prince met the Strategist.

Though the Strategist bickered often with the Bookworm, he was loyal and balanced the trio with his roguish humour and love for sport. Where the Warrior-Prince enjoyed slinking about in search of mystery, and the Bookworm preferred to consult her books, the Strategist would urge them on a bold exploit with swinging swords. They would inevitably be discovered, and more often than not, someone (the Warrior-Prince) would incur an injury. But the Warrior-Prince enjoyed the exploits, and so with some prompting, the Bookworm would be persuaded to go on another.

So it was that the Warrior-Prince's sixteen years passed smoothly, and on the morn of his seventeenth All Hallows’ Eve, he ventured with his companions into the Witch-Kingdom of Slytherin (for there were no spinning wheels left unburnt in his own Kingdom), pricked his finger, and fell into Eternal Sleep.

* * *

_‘… And so ends the story of Harry Warrior-Prince. I have but one story left to tell…’_

 

Once upon a time, in the most obscure wing of the castle of the Witch-Kingdom of Slytherin, there was a tower. And in the tower, lay the Prince Who Slept.

Though the tower was remote, it was frequented by the servants who longed to behold the Prince's beauty. Its tables were wiped, floors swept, and shelves dusted. When they ran out of chores, the servants would polish the stones.

And when the servants left, the Witch-King would enter.

He would with his staff and rituals attempt to awake the Prince. He scoured all the four Kingdoms of Hogwarts for books on healing, and books on blessings, and would brew every known or rumoured cure to awaken him, but for the one cure common in all the books; a True Love's Kiss. How could he, when the Prince was by his own doing loved by all, and had had friends but no lovers?

For more than three years, the Witch-King worked tirelessly, for while the Prince was asleep, his life could not be claimed. And when he had exhausted all but the last solution, the Witch-King changed his mind.

Long had he coveted immortality, and though his power slowed his ageing, the Witch-King felt with certainty that his mind was deteriorating, for he had been having difficulty focusing on his daily tasks and activities. But before him lay a specimen who did not age and could not be killed unless his love would kiss him. And all knew the Witch-King could not love.

Thus, thought the Witch-King, if he could circumvent the obstacle of unconsciousness, he could then be truly immortal.

So began the Witch-King's further, more thorough study of the Prince.

And though he learnt within a week that the love and sacrifice that brought about the blessings upon the Prince could not be replicated for one such as he, the Witch-King continued to visit the Prince every day. A force of habit, was what he told the guard who had the audacity to wonder about his motivations, and the guard was neither seen nor heard from again. A contingency against any sudden developments, was what he told himself. And perhaps he believed it, for he watched the Prince with a hunter's eye, alert for changes or even the slightest movements by the Prince.

By the fourth year, the servants were no longer allowed in the tower.

As the sixth year approached, the Witch-King began to miss court.

The eighth year came, and the Witch-King ceased to leave the tower.

 

In highermost tower of the castle of the Witch-Kingdom of Slytherin, there were two people. One was as healthy and alive as he had been a decade ago, and the other seemed only to grow in the paleness of his pallor by the day.

It was on a fine day two years since any had last seen the Witch-King, that two envoys from the Warrior-Kingdom of Gryffindor rode to the large doors of the castle, and were let in by the guards.

“We come in search of our Prince,” declared the red-headed man known in all the four Kingdoms for his prowess in Chess.

“He is no Prince of yours, for he belongs solely to our liege.”

“We will speak to him, then,” said the lady who knew nearly as much as the Witch-Queen upon the Throne of Unkindness, in such a manner as though she were deigning to speak to a peasant. And they were led to the tower.

“This is where we must leave you,” said the guard, and they were alone by the door to the room where their friend slept.

They did not knock before entering; in fact, they did not enter at all, for scarcely had she opened the door, when the Bookworm was pounced upon by a great serpent, and she fell on her companion. The serpent did not bite, but simply slithered off the lady when she had bought her master the time to rise and greet his guests.

When they looked up, the pair from Gryffindor beheld the regal frame of the Witch-King in the doorway, his posture exuding pure confidence, and his staff intimidating in its potential. Yet the light from the chamber behind him did naught to shadow his wan complexion, and to the observant Bookworm, his weakness was apparent.

Alas, it was not so to the Strategist. “Where is our Prince?” he demanded boldly, and was acknowledged only by the serpent's warning hisses.

The Bookworm then spoke, “Tom Witch-King, we come bearing news that the Warrior-King regent of Gryffindor Moony has fallen, and we request the return of our Prince to succeed.”

Even though his features were shadowed, when Witch-King's eyes flashed red, the duo scrambled backwards, frantically removing themselves from the reach of danger. “You will not remove him.”

“Then we shall have to launch our army,” said the Strategist, if only to gauge the reaction of the Witch-King. None had expected that the loveless man would become so fiercely attached to a breathing corpse.

“ _Nagini,_ ” the Witch-King hissed, and the snake coiled up again, prepared to strike.

The Bookworm leapt up immediately. “No, no, stop!” exclaimed she. “We know how to wake him up,” she ventured hesitantly, though she did not let her doubt show. “We understand his life belongs to you, but, please, Tom Witch-King, allow him to awaken, for our Kingdom can neither renounce him nor appoint a regent while he Sleeps in your castle.”

He did not believe her, but her passion and sincerity convinced him that she meant no harm. The Witch-King stepped aside.

With a grateful bow and a strong grip on her companion's arm, the Bookworm made her way slowly to the Prince, afraid to once again alarm the Witch-King.

On a high bed, beneath fine quilts of a royal green and silver, lay the Prince, just as he was ten years ago. His hands lay folded upon his chest, which rose and fell steadily. Even years of potions and rituals, did naught to alter his deep, rhythmic breathing. His hair was neatly arranged, and his skin clearly cleaned recently.

And the Bookworm did not doubt anymore.

She knelt before the Witch-King, and said, “When he was but a babe, you declared that all shall love him. My liege, for ten years you remained by his side and cared for him. Please, kiss the Prince.”

And he did, and the Prince did awaken.

The Prince was soon crowned and wed, and their Kingdoms merged, and they lived happily ever after.

* * *

_‘The end.’_

**Author's Note:**

> ... In other news, the part about Snape's role in vanquishing the Witch-King? Uh. Well. They merged the kingdoms and Voldemort became just 'King'. So.  
>  Also, Snape working at the castle even though he was exiled?? What?? The truth is that Witch-King decided to keep his enemies right under his (existent) nose.  
> And Snape across the Lake??? How. Well, he was being a sentimental old fool and mourning Lily.  
> Okay but where's Snape in the end??? Uhh...? I have no excuse for that one... Oops.
> 
> My original intention was for the three marauders to bless Harry, and it was all really fluffy, and Wormtail would do the thing where he squeaks 'And he shall be awaken a True Love's Kiss', but things happened (Wormtail stood them up, Padfoot lost his voice), so the blessings thing became all bloody instead.
> 
>  
> 
> Sirius had his vocal cords pulled out but could still sacrifice his voice, because.
> 
>  
> 
> Ravenclaw's symbol is an eagle, so it _should_ be the Throne of Convocation but... well.


End file.
